*******
The daylight that peeks through a small gap in the curtains causes the unwelcome, bright light to sting one of my eyes as I crack it open. I try to swallow down, but it’s too difficult. My throat is tight and my mouth is as dry as sandpaper. The slightest twitch of my lips reminds me of how sore they are. As I gently roll my head from the direction of the window, a sharp pain shoots up from my leg and through my spine, causing me to let out a low groan.
My head is throbbing so much I can barely lift it from the pillow to take a look at my surroundings. My eyes flicker open the best they can and try to focus on something in the room where I appear to be lying. The softness under my back tells me I’m no longer on a hard, stone floor, but my brain and body aren’t in sync yet, and nothing makes sense. There’s a lemon coloured stripe running down the centre of the wallpaper, which my eyes fixate on, running the full length, all the way up to the ceiling. As my eyes begin to wander around slowly, the light and air of the place seem to pour down on me, almost as though they’re trying to take the weight out of my limp, broken body. I wonder whether I’m in that place between life and death that so many talk about, but then the ornate, white wooden desk sat under the window ledge captures my attention. There is a leafy plant sat on top with a couple of flowers in bloom. Squinting down to try and focus, I finally see the beautiful, canary yellow daffodils. Then I remember the phone call I managed to make. This is Izzy’s house. It has to be. The choice of spring flower she has placed in here gives it away. It’s the one she used to place regularly in Dad’s room when he was ill.
I begin to panic as to how safe she is. What if Daggs got to her, too? What if I’m wrong and this isn’t her room? Moving my head a little bit further to find a door, I see the glass of water by my bedside, along with two tablets. It’s classic Izzy care. She always used to do that when I had a bad hangover or wasn’t feeling well. Somehow managing to push my frail arm out from under the duvet, I reach for the glass and slowly place the pills in my mouth. I try to steady my hand, but the trauma I have suffered soon becomes evident. I have to grasp my wrist with the other hand and exert as much pressure as I can to try and stop the shaking.
My eyes scrunch together from the torturous stabbing pain in my throat as I sip the tepid water and eventually force the tablets down the small hole. Pushing the glass back down, my shaky hands give way too soon and the water falls to the floor, covering the carpet in a mess while all I can do is lay there and groan. When I fall back down and take a moment to catch my breath, the effects of his abuse finally begin to sink in. I’m broken. For now, I’m away from Daggs, but at what cost? His last words haunt what’s left of my soul.
"This isn't goodbye, Rider. You'll always be mine."
As I gaze up at the blank, white ceiling, I remember back to the day my life changed, the day my childhood was ripped apart, the day I lost all control of my ability to love, to forgive, to be happy, not just for myself but with others, too.
To picture what it was like in that room makes it feel like only yesterday. I can remember the god-awful smell of clinical hygiene products from not having opened the windows for a few days. As I stood in that doorway, I watched over his tired, restless body and focused on the heave of his long and drawn out breaths. I could hear every wheeze lodged in his throat. His eyes were closed, yet the deep lines surrounding them were enough for us all to know he was in pain. His face had become grey and worn. He was simply a mere shadow of himself. The horrendous disease ate away at him and tore him from me, shred by shred. I was frightened of losing him and despite how he looked, I would force myself to see beyond it. When I gazed upon him, I didn’t see a dying a man, but a constant flow of happy memories. It was what got me through sitting with him during his last days.
He was supposed to be my always and forever, and until that day, I never truly realised or appreciated just how much that meant to me. I remember the things he used to say about Izzy and I like they were said only yesterday.
“It’s a good job you two are friends. I’m not sure people could handle you as sisters. I fear for any boys that you two meet.” The week after he found out he was ill, he told us, “You both need to be stronger now than ever before. Always stick together and don’t allow anything to come between you. The bond you girls have is for life, and you need to support each other throughout it.”
I let him down.
I let her down.
Most of all, I let myself down.
If I could make one wish, right now, it would be for Izzy to climb through the window, like she used to when we were kids, lay next to me in this crisp, sweet smelling bed, and hug me tight, hold me close, soothe my hair and tell me everything is going to be okay. But I know she'll be here soon. I know she isn't far away now. I know I'm safe.
As my restless, exhausted body starts to drift off to sleep; I withstand long enough to make one pact with myself.
I will never allow anything or anyone to come between Izzy and me again.
Thirty-Three
12th June 2006
I haven’t left the confines of the house for eight weeks, except to venture out into the back garden for a smoke – another new habit I seem to have found since trying to quit the drugs. When I can’t sleep at night because all I can see is Daggs in my room, or when I think I hear things in the dark and my mind goes stir crazy with wondering who it is, those are the times I find myself wandering outside, a cigarette dangling out of my mouth while I stand and stare at the tin cans I've set up along the fence in the back garden. There’s something therapeutic about taking your frustration out, throwing beanbags at them, although I rarely manage to hit the targets.
Another therapy for me is watching Izzy write at her laptop. I can sit there for hours on end and get lost in her fictional worlds. As strange as it may sound, she’s helping me to feel again. The emotions she writes on paper allow me to escape. I get lost in the feeling of finally being reacquainted with emotions that have been sat dormant inside of me for so, so long. With every day that passes, I’m starting to allow myself to believe in things again, as I do with each character through their stories. Izzy is a lyrical genius and I hope one day someone finds her work and sees what I see in it. She isn’t just passionate about writing; she’s talented, too.
Other than letting me watch her write, Izzy has tried her hardest to keep me occupied whenever she can. We play board games and she forces me to eat takeaway every single night. Chinese has become our favourite. It’s the one thing we can agree on that we both like. I avoid the TV like the plague, unless we’re watching a movie that Izzy has assured me has no triggers in it. The last thing I need to see is all the doom and gloom in the world. Ignorance has kind of become a state of bliss for me. I know I have to be able to handle my problems before I can deal with anything else.
Then there are the times when I’m alone, when Izzy simply can’t be there to hold my hand. I have to find ways of coping with that. No matter how much I love her and how grateful I am to her for saving my life, she has to still be allowed to live her own. I don’t want to become a burden to her. I want to see her smile and be happy.
That’s why I’ve finally plucked up the courage to start attending Narcotics Anonymous, like Ethan encouraged me to do. I’ve thought about him plenty over the past few months and how he managed to win the battle. I secretly admire him. He’s become something of an idol in my eyes. I know that Izzy rang him and quit my job for me a while ago, and even though I have no idea what was said, I’m glad she was the one to do it. I’m not sure I would have been able to face speaking to him. He was right all along about my addiction, and I never gave him enough respect to not take drugs into his club.
Up until today, I’ve read all over the internet about how to deal with addiction, ways to cope with stress and times of struggle, but I think it’s about time I tried to meet people in the same situation as me. As much as Izzy tries to relate to how I feel, she’s not an addict and there’s only so much knowledge sh
e’s been able to pick up from books and leaflets along the way. Maybe speaking and listening to others might help to put my situation into perspective. The biggest hurdle is leaving the house to get there. Izzy offers to take me and wait, but this is something I need to do for myself. It’s my first step to recovery and the mental healing process, to help me live beyond our Casa. I read somewhere that if I face my fear, I will truly find out what I am made of. I will gain strength, courage and confidence.
Well, the only way is up, right?
When I open the front door, the warm summer air blows around my head and the sun beams down on my face. It’s an inviting welcome from the safety of the house, and it only encourages me to take one small step onto the front porch. I have to keep reminding myself that I can do this. Having not been out in a while, my wardrobe choices are a little lacking, which means I spent a long time deliberating over what to wear. I’ve had to borrow something of Izzy’s, just some blue-wash jeans and a black groupie t-shirt.
As I close the door behind me, I place the key inside to lock it. Every movement I make reminds me of the fact that I’m shutting myself out of the house. Each step I take is further away from my safe place. Turning to walk down the path, I hesitate as the panic causes a tension in the pit of my stomach and a question in my mind as to whether or not I can actually do this.
Leaning against the wall, I take a moment to steady my rapid, shallow breaths. I try to imagine myself on a beautiful, white, sandy beach with bright blue seas in front of me and a clear, endless sky above. As I focus on the day dream, I can feel the soft sand on the bottom of my feet. I can hear the gentle breeze that sweeps across the water and imagine the warm breeze blowing across my face as I watch the stunning sun begin to set. There’s a warm air, just like today and there’s a beautiful ray of sunshine just like today. I can do this. I can. I just need to calm down and remember the end goal. Opening my eyes slowly, I start to slide my feet down the pathway, all the time visualising my happy place. The path leads to outside the gate; the road leads to another road, which leads to the local church hall. All the time, I stay focused on my breathing, the beach and the cocktails Izzy and I would share.
I’ve never been one for religion, but there’s comfort in being stood outside this quaint, stone building. There are glass panels in the front door, which allow you to see straight through into the medium sized hall. It has green curtains hanging in the windows and an old wooden floor. I catch a glimpse of the chairs positioned in a circle and I allow myself to laugh a little. I thought that was only something they did in films or soap operas, but it looks like it’s true for real life, too.
There’s a small poster pinned inside the plastic notice board on the wall outside, giving details of the meeting I’m about to attend – just basic dates and times, and the usual ‘anyone is welcome’ message. I loiter around outside, reading all the other posters that are pinned up. It’s my delay tactic, I know, but I need to build up the courage to take that first step inside. There are a few people that pass me by and enter, none of whom I recognise, luckily. As the time to start draws nearer, I take one last deep breath and catch the door behind someone going in, telling myself it's now or never. I need to do this. I need to sit and share. It will help.
Making my way inside, I keep my head down, conscious of standing out like the newbie I am. I have no idea what the rules are at these things or what I’m actually supposed to do, but as my eyes wander around the room, I notice a table in the corner of the room where another long haired, brunette woman is getting herself a cup of coffee. That seems like a good idea. It’s basic enough for me to start with. Maybe making a coffee will help to ease my discomfort and give me something to do while I work out what I’m actually meant to do. When the woman moves away, just before I make it over, she walks past and flashes me a smile – one of those awkward smiles that says ‘I know why you’re here, but so am I, and it’s okay.’
Pouring the coffee in a polystyrene cup, my attention is soon grabbed by someone stood at the front, speaking loudly.
"If you would all like to take a seat, we can get started." The man appears not much older than me, of average height and with blonde hair. All of which goes unnoticed because it's the expression he’s wearing that stands out the most. It’s compassionate, and the way he holds himself up straight speaks strength.
Taking a seat in the circle, I perch on the edge and place my cup in my lap. Having it there gives me something to do with my nervous hands. There aren’t many people here, only around eight or so. But as I gaze around, I’m struck by how different everyone is. There’s a mixture of ages, coupled with different ethnicities. I’m not quite sure what I expected to see, but I’m interested to know the path of each and every one of these people, and find out what lead them to the same point as me.
Were they all fooled into the magic of another life, too? Were they all sold an ideal that didn’t really exist?
“Allow me to introduce myself. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Sam. I’m a drug addict and I’ve been clean for four years, two months and eight days. I could tell you the hours, the minutes and the seconds, too, but I won't overwhelm you all so soon into the meeting. I know a few of you here today are new." He glances at me, and my mouth falls open from his honesty alone. It isn't the time he's been clean that shocks me, more the fact that he now looks more confident, more self-assured and happy than anyone else I've come across in such a long time.
He continues to talk in a bright, cheery voice. “I’d like to welcome you all here today. If I can just go around the circle and ask you all to share your names, that’s usually a great place for us to start. But please, if you do not wish to, just nod to the person on your left and we’ll move along without question.”
He nods to the first person to start. “Hi, my name is Lisa and I’m a drug addict.” The way she says it without hesitation suggests she may have been here a few times. A couple more follow her before it eventually comes to my turn.
“H-hi,” I stutter and clear my throat. “My name is Paris and I’m-” about to say this out loud for the first time to a room full of strangers. “I’m a drug addict.”
I wait for a round of applause, someone to stand and congratulate me on my bravery, or for something, anything to happen, the way it would if I’d just said that in front of Izzy, but they all just nod as the next person begins to speak. I’m starting to think nodding is the way they let a person know they are listening without saying anything. Living with Mum and John, I learnt the old smile and nod technique. I just hope they’re not all secretly passing judgement on me behind those tight lips and wide eyes.
When everyone has finished giving their names, Sam starts to read from a card in front of him, letting us all know what today group topic is is… Grief.
Great.
Even though I don’t want to, I can’t help but listen as he begins to explain how grief can have a huge part to play in many people’s addictions. He talks about his personal experience and losing his wife. It’s heart breaking to listen to, but he doesn’t break down or cry. Maybe speaking about his situation over and over for the past four years has helped him to come to terms with his loss, or maybe that’s just what I want to cling to and hope will happen for me.
Sam opens the discussion up for anyone that would like to share. I’m so lost in listening to everyone’s stories that I have to blink a few times when he gestures in my direction.
“Paris, would you like to share anything with us?” He smiles. “And please, don’t feel like you have to.” Then he nods again. Of course he does.
Whether I do or don’t is irrelevant at this point; it’s what I came here to do, and if all these other people can do it then so can I. As my hands circle the now cold coffee cup, I take an awkward glance around the group and find myself speaking softly.
“Hi.”
What do I say? What do I say? All these faces are staring back at me, waiting for me to continue like they’re genuinely in
terested in what I have to say, but what exactly is it that I have to say?
“I’ve been clean for two months now. My, uh, my dad died when I was 17. My heart broke and it’s never fully recovered.” I pause, shuffling on my seat to try and shake off some of the nerves that are flowing through me. “I’ve tried to find things to fill the void in my life, but each one of them has just led to further heartache. I’ve lost friends and family along the way because I was selfish and stubborn. Drugs became my only friend.
My head drops to stare down into my cup, unable to look them in the eye anymore as I continue to talk quietly.
“Grief has robbed me of too many years of my life. So many I have spent lonely, thinking I’m going crazy, that there is no place for me in this world. Drugs helped me to feel in control again. They helped me to forget that I was alone and that I'd pushed everyone that ever loved me away. Or that’s what I thought until my best friend walked back into my life two months ago. She made me remember that true love is unconditional, and that no matter what I have done, she will always be there for me.”
I look back up as I address the room. “I know my dad didn’t leave me because he didn’t love me anymore. It was just one of life’s tragedies, a tragedy that I’m only now coming to terms with, thanks to my friend.” I offer them all a warm smile, almost as if they know who I’m speaking about before I even say her name. “Izzy.”
“Thank you for sharing that, Paris. I understand how hard that must have been. The loss of your father has obviously been very difficult for you, just like mine was with my wife.”
And with that one small acknowledgement from him, I find some small comfort from sharing my thoughts, no matter how anxious I was about it before I came here. It’s the best birthday present I’ve received today. So far.
Thirty-Four
15th April 2006
Paris Hemsworth's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 2) Page 22
